There’s really no better way to say “hey, I want to include more real-life content on my internet weblog” than with a story of the Boston Public Works Department accusing my household of putting human shit in our trash. Am I right?
Here we go.
A Friday a few weeks ago, I came home to everything in order. I found a coveted parking spot right outside the house, the tulips were looking especially not-dead, and I was eager to get inside and commence Friday-evening-relaxation activities like eating cookies over the sink while I read Boston Globe Direct coupon booklets. My dog licked my ankles as I strolled over to the kitchen table. A bright orange envelope caught my eye.
“Your trash was not picked up today,” it stated in Times New Roman seriousness. “For the following reason(s):”
A list followed of pre-printed items, accompanied by check boxes, such as “too full” and “incorrectly sorted.” There was also a box that said “Other” at the bottom, with a small line for the party to elaborate. This box was checked. Neatly printed on the line next to it, in all capitals, read “NO HUMAN WASTE.” (see: fig. 1)
Fig. 1HUMAN WASTE!
There was also a piece of college-ruled white paper attached to the orange notice (apparently, human waste is a topic that cannot be adequately summed up on the pre-printed card). On it, someone wrote with the sort of impeccable cursive handwriting that had to be the result of years of being whacked with rulers by nuns...
Fig. 2My trash will have to STAY.
As you can see, his/her tone was coarse. His/her signature, illegible (though, I admit, very fancy).
My boyfriend had found the pair of notes in our mailbox. The delightful penmanship just made the note all the more insulting. Now, as all this washed over me there in my tidy kitchen, my first thought, of course, was “I didn’t know scientists worked for the Public Works Department!”
What, did they send the questionable material off to the lab for analysis? I don’t mean to say “a lot of things in this old world look like shit that actually aren’t shit,” but well, I guess that is exactly what I’m saying. Anyone who’s seen the Baby Ruth scene in Caddyshack knows I’m right. I was initially horrified at their lack of slack-cutting. The "human" part is what amazes me the most. They immediately skipped over all other reasonable possibilities and just went ahead and assumed the absolute worst. What could they possibly have found in my trash that made them all shake their heads in disgust and say “now THIS, this is definitely
human excrement. And this is just where our department draws the line”?
But seriously, we’ve got a dog, and so do our neighbors. While we always diligently bag the doo-doo, I started to wonder if maybe a renegade poo had escaped its Stop & Shop bag confines within our garbage bin. If that is what happened, I definitely agree that it’s unintended yet unpleasant, but I hope I don’t sound too privileged-white-lady-ish when I say I kind of think that’s still within the realm of responsibility of a public city inspector, with better heath insurance and vacation time than me, to deal with. When your job is to INSPECT CITIES, how can you expect not to come across some doody at least once in a while? I mean I don't inspect the city, I just live here, and I still feel like I'm knee-deep in human excrement. Just try walking around near BU dorms on a Saturday night.
Even still: I don’t have 24 hour surveillance set up around my trash bins like some sort of eccentric genius who also has a robot that makes her breakfast in bed. The bins sit outside, in our yard but near the curb, in a sometimes-sketchy Boston neighborhood. Any number of passers-by may toss God-knows-what into our receptacle, at any time. A homeless dude may have spotted our trash receptacle across the way and, with hearts in his eyes à la Pepe Le Pew, thought to himself, “that looks like a wonderful place for me to take my morning crap.”
Now this is obviously a ridiculous story, destined for dramatic retelling at parties, but there was a part of me that couldn’t just laugh this off. It’s just the degree of high-judgy-ness that came with the note that really set me off. It didn’t read, “please don’t put human waste in the trash,” it read, “what sort of monsters are you people?”
Human waste.
HUMAN WASTE!
Who puts human waste in the public trash? There’s no way to not feel ridiculously defensive when a government agency accuses you of crapping in your trashcan.
Of course when my boyfriend called the city to tell them that, yes, we are the proud owners of indoor plumbing and we use it frequently with delight and aplomb, they told us they’d “look into it” in the sort of casual tone that makes you wonder what sort of malarkey they are used to hearing. You’re not at ALL intrigued by my harrowing tale of human waste allegations? What sort of grotesque stuff do people call you about everyday?
They called back a few days later to report that what had been found was a crumpled bottle filled with what “appeared to be urine.” (Definitely not lemonade or any other yellow beverage, no, it was certainly urine.
Human urine. Definitely.) They apologized and assured there would be no interruption to our trash removal service.
But that’s not as hilarious a resolution as a homeless dude crapping in trash receptacle to exact his revenge on society, so you know, we’ll pretend it was the latter one.
I mean. Shit.
